A Name in Kohl
by Individually Packaged
Summary: Three thousand years ago, Bakura was sealed into the Millennium Ring. But how? And what part did Malik play in it? Citronshipping. Complete!
1. Chapter One

**A/N:** This started as a oneshot, but because the story kept expanding on me, it turned into a five-chapter story, though this is definitely the longest chapter. It's all written, just being edited now, so there will be frequent updates. :)

Thanks so much to ChaosRocket for beta-ing this story!

**Disclaimer:** I don't own Yu-Gi-Oh!

* * *

Chapter One

Malik couldn't take his eyes off the prisoner. Even as the thief was led into the courtyard of the palace, his wrists and ankles bound in iron chains, Malik was thunderstruck by the thief's appearance. His wild white hair was exotic. The scar that ran down the length of his face, under his right eye, was devilish.

"After lengthy consideration by the Great Kenbet," one of the council members of the Pharaoh's court pronounced, standing above the congregation that anticipated the verdict, "this man has been charged with treacherous actions against the Kingdom."

The guard that led the thief toward the center of the courtyard suddenly shoved the thief forward, causing him to tumble to the ground, face-first into the cobblestones. The thief rolled over, lying on the ground, still bound by the chains, and glowered up at the guard. Blood slowly seeped through his white hair from the spot on his forehead which had smacked into the cement. The guard detachedly grabbed the thief by his arm and hauled him upward, standing him by the stake that had been erected in the center of the courtyard.

"He is sentenced to death."

Malik, standing by his sister Isis, beside the other council members and the Pharaoh himself, was transfixed. His insides had frozen at that statement. Yet another reason, he thought bitterly, to hate the Pharaoh that stood only feet from him, who had ordered the thief's death.

Pity gnawed on Malik's heart, to see this young, exotic man be sentenced to death, and by impalement no less. It was said that death by impalement meant one's _ba_, or soul, would become imprisoned on the ground of execution, and would be unable to follow the deceased into the afterlife.

Aknadin, a member of the Pharaoh's court, approached the thief, who stared straight ahead without fear or remorse, even as the blood on his forehead slid down the graceful curve of his face. Malik examined him with great interest and compassion. The thief was only wearing a waistcloth. His bronze body was bruised and beaten. Just as the thief was being brought in, Malik had caught sight of long, deep gashes in the prisoner's back, which had been lashed and broken open even before the execution. Malik felt sympathy swim in his stomach. Though Malik knew that this man had probably committed crimes worth of death, somehow he was compelled to think otherwise. To think that, maybe, he should not suffer such a fate.

"Thief," Aknadin addressed the prisoner. "Before you are executed, do you have anything to say for your actions?"

The thief said nothing. He simply stared past Aknadin, as though not even seeing him. Malik, watching on, thought maybe the pain from the lashings was so great, the thief could no longer feel anything. Perhaps he'd crawled into a corner of his mind to avoid the beatings, humiliation, and execution. His white hair was now streaked with blood and dirt. His eyes looked dead.

"How did you dare, thief?" Aknadin continued, undeterred by his silence. "How did you dare to enter the sacred tomb of one of our former Pharaohs and desecrate his belongings?"

The crowd that had gathered in the courtyard watched in interest, murmuring. Malik's heart twisted with hatred for the way this prisoner was being treated. The prisoner was given no name; he was merely called _thief_ because to give him a name would be to acknowledge his existence, to recognize that he had some worth to the Kingdom.

But something compelled Malik to believe the thief wasn't wholly wicked. Something, and Malik couldn't fathom what, compelled him to save him.

Aknadin looked angry now. "Do you have no answer for us? You show no guilt for the sacrilege you've committed—stealing from the very tomb of a Pharaoh!"

The thief continued to stare forward, unseeingly.

This caused Aknadin to act in fury at being ignored. He grabbed a handful of the thief's hair and hauled him forward. The thief, with his ankles still chained, tripped and fell forward, only to be stopped by the merciless tug on his hair. Malik couldn't stand to watch this cruelty. The thief was simply being tortured in a pitiless game before death.

"Well?" Aknadin snapped, still holding the thief by fistfuls of his hair.

Then, something happened. The longer the thief stared at Aknadin, the more the glazed, unseeing look on his face cleared. Suddenly, the thief's eyes widened and his jaw clenched. Before Aknadin could react, the thief ripped out of his grasp and elbowed him in his gut, moving quickly despite his chained wrists and injuries. He looked as though he'd been snapped out of a dream.

"Get your fucking hands off of me," the thief snarled, stepping backward several feet, his stance that of a wary animal. Malik watched, transfixed.

Aknadin looked surprised, but quickly recovered, and smirked. He approached the guarded thief. "So you're willing to talk."

"You bastard," the thief growled, now very aware of his surroundings. "You have no right."

Before the thief could do anything, Aknadin had grabbed the back of the thief's hair, causing his head to swing up, to look into Aknadin's hateful eyes.

"No right to do what? You're the thief that's been plaguing Egypt for over ten years." Aknadin's face twisted in disgust. "The _Thief King_. You're nothing but a petty criminal. You deserve to die."

At this, the thief spit right into Aknadin's face. Aknadin immediately released the thief's hair and stepped back, slowly bringing the fabric of his long sleeves to his face and wiping the saliva off in revulsion. He turned, and without a backward glance, addressed the guard that had brought in the thief:

"Kill him."

The guard looked more than willing to follow the command. He stepped toward the glowering thief and grabbed him by the arm, hauling him toward the stake.

Malik watched in fear. He's seen very few executions in his life, only because Egypt had been quite peaceful for the better part of his life, since the Pharaoh had ordered the creation of the Millennium items. But this particular thief, the Thief King as he was called, had been upsetting the Kingdom for years. Despite knowing that this thief deserved death for the havoc he'd wreaked, Malik couldn't stand to watch. In spite of the prisoner's crimes, Malik felt that the death penalty was unjust; the man hadn't murdered anyone, after all. He had committed a sacrilege, yes, but was mere _stealing_ worthy of death?

The guard hit the thief, causing him to fall to his knees, and grabbed the stake, pulling it out of the ground, to ready for the impalement. The thief looked straight ahead once more, lost in a corner of his mind.

Malik turned toward Isis.

"Must we kill him, sister? Is there no other method to punish this man?"

Isis stared down at the thief, fingering the golden Millennium Necklace around her neck. "Yes, Malik, he must die. I have seen his past and seen the unspeakable sacrilege he's committed. There is no salvation for him."

It seemed wrong, somehow, to kill a man with such pure, white hair, and with eyes that sparked with loathing.

There was something deeper in the thief's hatred toward the Kingdom, Malik realized. He didn't steal merely to provide for life's necessities. He stole with vengeance. He wrecked with purpose. The misdeeds he committed came with a message, and the tomb he'd robbed—one of the most insulting things he could do to the Kingdom, aside from killing the Pharaoh himself—was branded with revenge.

This realization left Malik's throat dry and his heart beating fast. He wanted to save this man. This thief was trying to accomplish something, Malik thought, and he would die prematurely if the execution followed through. And maybe, just maybe, the thief's hatred for the Pharaoh ran as deep as his own.

As the guard raised the stake, about to strike the thief's bare back and impale him, the thief slowly looked up and caught Malik's eye.

His gaze was murderous. His eyes stormed with such animosity that Malik's breath left his lungs. He simply looked back. The thief's eyes narrowed, detesting the very sight of Malik. In those precious moments before death, he simply hated. He hated anything connected to the Kingdom, to the palace, and to the high court Malik was a part of.

Then, the guard's arm fell, stake in hand, and without hesitation, it struck the thief's back.

The kneeling man cried out as the sharp rod pierced him and ran through his flesh, spearing through his chest. Without remorse, without blinking an eye, the guard thrust the rod through until several feet of the bloodied stake had come out of the trembling man's chest and pierced the filthy ground.

The crowd around the courtyard was silent. Malik himself began trembling at the sight, and covered his mouth with his two hands to avoid throwing up, or crying out, or shouting at the merciless guard to stop. But saving this prisoner in broad daylight, before the Pharaoh and the entire court, would be treason. So Malik only watched, his pity driving him mad, compelling him to end this heartless execution.

The thief kneeled motionlessly as the stake struck the ground and kept him in place, unable to move or stand even if he had the strength to do so. Crimson, glistening blood slid in rivers down his back and his chest, staining the ground. He would live in this near-life condition for days. This was the particular cruelty of impalement—his death would be slow; he would kneel, breathing, before the entire court, for days, suffering humiliation and pain until the afterlife finally took him, whether from blood loss, hunger, or sheer exhaustion.

After some time, twilight neared and the courtyard emptied. The execution was over. The man would simply die in a few days' time. The Pharaoh and his court left. Isis stood, looking down at Malik, and asked why he still sat there, before this morbid sight.

"I…I think I'll head to the evening ceremony at the temple," Malik said as he finally stood, his eyes not meeting those of Isis.

Isis nodded, knowing that the ceremony would be a welcome event after this terrible execution. She simply bid him goodbye and left.

Of course, Malik had no intention of heading to the ceremony. He stepped down off of the high altar they had stood upon and looked about, to ensure that no guard or court member still lingered.

The courtyard was empty.

So without further thought, Malik strode across the dusty cobblestones and neared the thief. The man kneeled with his head down and his eyes closed, most likely unconscious from blood loss.

Malik grabbed the stake that pierced the thief's back and, giving no second thought to his actions, ripped the rod out, pulling it out inch by inch, swiftly and methodically. The blood, red and angry, spilled onto Malik's hands and the front of his robes.

Instantaneously, the thief's eyes snapped open and he was about to cry out when Malik pressed a bloodied hand to the thief's mouth. The prisoner bit his hand painfully, spluttering, clearly not understanding Malik's actions—he probably thought someone had come around to injure him some more.

"Shut up, thief!" Malik snapped as he continued to pull out the stake. "I'm going to get you out of here."

The thief struggled and managed to throw Malik's hand from his mouth.

"Get the fuck away from me!" he growled, tasting his own blood on his lips.

At that instant, Malik pulled the stake fully out of his bloodied back; he promptly threw the rod to the ground. The thief fell forward, having been suspended in that position by the stake, but Malik caught him before he could slam into the ground. The thief fell in his lap, his wrists and ankles still bound in chains. The blood that covered most of his bronze, bruised body seeped into Malik's clothes, and Malik felt the coppery smell engulf him, but he was unconcerned with these things at the moment. The thief was warm in Malik's arms, his body was solid and he was still breathing, though he'd fallen unconscious again. Malik's breath caught at how much more exotic the thief looked up close. A trail of blood had dried on the side of his face from where his forehead had hit the ground earlier.

Knowing that such gazing could be saved for later, Malik hauled the thief into a standing position and tore off part of his own robes to wrap around the thief's chest, over the large hole in the right side of his torso, so that the blood wouldn't flow onto the ground as they walked, and leave a trail for others to follow.

The thief was heavy and he was clearly older than Malik, and Malik prayed they wouldn't be discovered as he stumbled slowly out of the courtyard with the man splayed over his shoulders. His underground chambers were close to the palace and the cover of darkness helped as Malik descended down the steps to his home, through a hidden entrance he'd long ago discovered. The entrance led to a storage closet which stemmed from Malik's very room.

Malik gently placed the thief over an old blanket he'd dug out of his chamber, snapped off the chains around his wrists and ankles, and then rummaged about his home for gauze and medicine against infection. He kneeled by the sleeping thief, a bowl of water by his side, and carefully washed the wound that was over an inch in diameter. The stake had narrowly missed his lungs or any other vital organs. The thief was truly lucky, despite the severe damage he'd suffered—he might still live.

Malik cleaned the other wounds on his back, carefully and tenderly moving the thief to the side to do so. Several times, as Malik ran a cloth over the lashes, the thief hissed or moaned, but otherwise, he didn't awaken. Finally, Malik applied soothing ointment over the bruises and cuts, feeling the soft skin of the man, and bandaged his wounds with gauze. As he cleaned the wounds, he caught sight of a tattoo inked on the inside of the thief's right arm. When Malik examined it closely, he realized it consisted of three images aligned in a row: that of a wicker stool, a loaf of bread, and a flax wick. Despite his curiosity at the meaning of the tattoo, he decided not to mention it if the thief awoke, for now.

And then Malik waited.

He waited for days, checking on the thief every few hours, but the man didn't awaken. Malik did not leave his home over those days, but Isis didn't notice. She'd revealed that the prisoner had disappeared, much to the surprise of the entire city. But the Pharaoh's court mostly suspected that he'd managed to rip out the stake in his back and had crawled into some deserted part of the city to die. Nobody had faith that he'd lived.

After the third day, Malik was beginning to lose faith as well.

But finally, after those three days, when Malik walked into the little storage closet that stemmed from his room, he saw that the thief's eyes were open and that he'd managed to sit up and lean against the wall.

Malik was struck by vivid gray eyes, which steadily met his, wary and narrowed. Relief flooded Malik's heart momentarily that he was still alive.

"You," the thief addressed Malik, who stood stunned by the doorway, unable to believe that he'd sat up after days of immobility. "Who the hell are you?"

At that tone, Malik stepped fully into the room and closed the door, his relief ebbing just a bit.

"My name is Malik," he revealed. "And I expected a nicer greeting from a criminal whose life I've just saved."

The thief's eyebrows rose slightly. "So I'm not dead, huh?" He looked about the cramped, dusty little room. "I could've sworn I was in hell."

Though Malik had been kind up until now, his fuse was short.

"Look, thief. These are far better conditions than the ones you faced on that stake. You could be a little more appreciative of what I've done for you."

The thief was unimpressed. "I didn't ask to be saved. Especially not by a vermin of the Pharaoh's court."

"Vermin?" Malik's eyes narrowed. "How dare you talk to me like this? After all the work I've done, getting you out of the palace and into my home and keeping you alive for this long!"

The man continued to look indifferent. "A lot of worthless work that was. I have a fucking hole in my chest and my back is ripped open. How long do you expect me to live? You've just prolonged my death—that's all you've done."

Malik's jaw clenched, unable to believe his ungratefulness. "Bastard. I should have just let you die."

"Yes, you should have," the thief replied emotionlessly. "That would've been the smart thing to do. After all that I've done, I can't think of a single reason why an elite member of the court would want to keep me alive."

There was a question tacked on to the end of that sentence.

"I don't need to reveal my reasons to you," Malik answered it, glaring.

The thief smirked. "Well then, _Malik_, I won't dig for reasons. But if that's the case, then you've only brought the devil into your home."

Malik scoffed, not liking the way his own name had flown mockingly out of the thief's mouth. "The devil, indeed. Perhaps one with a tongue. What could you possibly do in your condition?"

"You must be naïve, to think that a thief is ever a defenseless man." Warning swam in the thief's eyes. "You should be afraid of me."

Malik smirked, now convinced that he was bluffing. He had sat very close to the thief, and now kneeled by the bloodied blanket he'd given him earlier. The man could probably hardly move. Malik was clearly at great advantage, so he simply replied:

"You might have a sharp tongue. But I'm not afraid of you."

Unfortunately, the man had been waiting for that. In an instant, he grabbed Malik's hair and pulled it down roughly, swinging his head upward, and with his other hand, revealed a dagger, which he pressed to Malik's bare throat.

Malik's eyes widened. His heart immediately jumped into his throat, thudding quickly, momentarily thrown by what had just happened.

The thief leaned in, feeling Malik's shallow breath on his cheek. He whispered in Malik's ear:

"Don't underestimate me. Even in this condition, you have every reason to fear me. I can slash your throat without a second thought."

Despite his fear, Malik glanced down at the thief, catching his eye.

"Then why are you hesitating?"

For a moment, the thief only regarded Malik coldly, as though trying to understand this boy that had saved him. Then, appearing to have decided something, he pulled the dagger back and released Malik's hair.

"Because you haven't given me a reason to kill you yet."

And he placed the dagger by his side, close by his hand in case Malik suddenly regretted his actions and decided to kill the thief after all.

Malik stepped back several feet, uncomfortable with being so close to him now that the thief had proved he wasn't that weak, despite his deep wounds. Regardless of the danger he'd just been in, however, he realized that the thief had only meant to warn him. To say that if Malik tried anything, he could be killed.

"Where did you get that knife?"

The man looked up. "The dagger? I found it in this storage closet, where you've left me. You should be more careful where you harbor criminals. They don't trust anybody, not even those that are disillusioned enough to help them."

Malik ignored his own short fuse for once, and didn't address the insults. There was something particular he wanted to know from the thief, something that might eventually help Malik. So, he asked, "Why are you a criminal?"

The thief's eyebrows rose. "What kind of question is that?"

"I was merely curious," Malik said. If this man truly hated the Pharaoh as much as Malik believed, then they might actually see eye to eye. If he didn't jump down Malik's throat with that dagger again, he briefly thought. "What drove you to steal from a Pharaoh's tomb?"

The thief didn't look as though he wanted to answer that. His eyes narrowed.

"I have no desire to tell you."

Malik felt put-off. "Honestly, is that all the thanks I'm going to get for saving you? Not even a morsel of information? Not even a _how_ or _why_ you've been plaguing the Kingdom for ten years now?"

The man kept his mouth shut.

Then Malik thought of something, so he changed tactics.

"I've noticed, you know. The things that you've stolen and the havoc that you've wreaked. You're not merely stealing to live, but to send the court a message. You're trying to accomplish something."

At that, the thief looked up sharply. "What the hell are you on about? What type of message would I want to send—and to the fucking court no less?"

Malik shrugged, smiling slightly, glad that the thief looked perturbed now. "That's what I'm trying to figure out."

The man looked at him for a long moment. He searched Malik's face, as though all his thoughts might be written upon it.

"Why did you save me?"

But Malik felt oddly empowered and stubborn at that moment. So, mockingly, he said, "I have no desire to tell you."

That was the wrong move, however. In an instant, the thief grabbed Malik's robes and yanked him forward, so they were nose to nose.

"Don't give me that bullshit," he said in a low voice. "You're forgetting whom you're dealing with. I can slip that dagger into your heart if you give me enough reason."

"And then do what?" Malik said in an equally low tone, showing no fear this time. "If you kill me, where the hell will you go looking like this? You'll be executed—_again_—the moment you step into the city. You're not in much condition to order me around and demand that I answer your questions, especially when _you_ refuse to answer _mine_."

The thief's eyes narrowed. He obviously hadn't expected Malik to fight back. His grip on Malik's robes tightened, bringing their faces even closer together.

"Answer my question then, and I'll answer yours," he growled.

Malik smirked, feeling particularly defiant.

"Tough luck. I asked first."

The thief's eyes widened momentarily, unable to believe Malik's childishness, and then he shoved Malik backward, throwing him onto the floor.

"For fuck's sake—what are you, two years old?" the thief snapped. "Will you just answer my damn question already?"

Malik sat up, glaring. "I would if you weren't so stubborn."

The thief simply stared at him impatiently.

"Alright," Malik finally relented, seeing that they were just going in circles at this point. "The reason that I saved you. It's quite simple, really. You see, I've noticed that the types of misdeeds you do tend to revolve around the Pharaoh, one way or another. Always stealing priceless things from the palace—never the markets or any other places—and desecrating old Pharaohs' tombs. You're obviously bitter about something the palace—or more precisely the Pharaoh—has done."

Malik paused to gauge the thief's reaction so far. He simply looked back impassively. So Malik continued.

"I'm also bitter toward the Pharaoh." Malik paused, because what he was about to reveal was rather secret. "A generation ago, there was a prophecy which predicted that a young Pharaoh would emerge, and would need a way to leave behind a secret. My family, which has always been close to the court, was chosen for this duty. I've long suspected that the current Pharaoh's child will be this prophesized Pharaoh; even my sister, Isis, has foreseen the Tombkeeper's Initiation I must endure when the Pharaoh finally leaves behind his secret.

"They'll inscribe the secret in my back with a searing knife," Malik continued, his gaze terrified. "I'll live with these hieroglyphs in my back my whole life, in these underground chambers, and then my firstborn son will endure the same thing. It'll be an inescapable cycle, if I don't do something about it. It's not the life I want to live. And I'm willing to defy the young Pharaoh, kill him even, to object to these duties."

For a moment, the thief simply stared at him.

Then he sneered. "So that's what it is? Poor little _Malik_ can't stand to live underground, get a few scars on his back, and have prepared meals and baths whenever he wants—_every damn day of his life_?"

The thief looked thoroughly pissed; his fists had unconsciously clenched. Malik had flinched when his name was uttered with such venom.

"Is that all you have to complain about?" he continued, enraged. "You live next to the fucking palace and have three meals a day and clean clothes. You never worry about getting sick or dying. You never wonder what the hell it would be like if your family was still alive—"

At that, the thief paused, as though out of breath. As though he couldn't continue, because suddenly, these notions hit too close to home. He looked away, sick of staring at Malik.

Malik sat quietly, wondering if that's what the thief's life was like. Having to steal to survive. Being in constant disease and poverty. Having no family.

"Alright," Malik finally said. "So I don't live a terrible life. But just because I don't go to bed hungry or don't worry about getting sick or dying on a daily basis, doesn't mean I don't also despise the way the palace has treated me. Or rather, the way they _will_ treat me whenever this Pharaoh emerges."

The thief had nothing to say to that, though he still wouldn't look Malik in the eye.

"The point is, we have common ground," Malik continued, finally feeling as though they were getting somewhere. "We both hate the Pharaoh and the palace. We both need a way to extract revenge for what they have or, in my case, will do."

The man finally glanced back at Malik. His tone was scornful and disinterested as he said: "So? What are you suggesting—that to accomplish this, we work together?"

Malik nodded. "That's exactly what I'm suggesting."

The thief scoffed. "You're a mere child. You'd only get in my way."

"Child?" Malik frowned. "I'm sixteen! I'm hardly a—"

"A child," the thief finished derisively. "You're still a boy. You haven't had any real-world experience. You've probably never stolen anything in your life. You've never faced real danger before. Even if you were twenty-five, and as coddled as you are by the palace—I'd still call you a child."

Malik pursed his lips. "Fine, so I'm inexperienced. You, however, are on the brink of death. You'll need strength of any form if you intend to keep stealing and defying the Kingdom."

The thief simply shrugged, and Malik briefly wondered if that movement was painful at all, or if the thief was merely hiding his pain to disprove Malik's statement.

"Wounds heal with time," the thief said.

"In that case, experience also comes with time," Malik retorted. Then, before their conversation could get too sidetracked, he said, "In any case, now that I've answered your question, you'd better answer mine. Why are you a criminal and why did you steal from the old Pharaoh's tomb?"

"That's technically two questions," the thief said, and smirked briefly when Malik threw him an aggravated look for being so difficult. "But I'll answer them both."

The thief paused momentarily, as though gathering his thoughts for a long tale. His eyes narrowed, as though the thoughts he was gathering were rather unpleasant ones.

"I'll begin by explaining who I am," he started, looking into the bloodied blanket without seeing it, as though he might see the story printed in its fabric. "I was born in the village of Kul Elna, a village of thieves and criminals. One day, when I was young, a man leading a powerful army invaded my village and attacked everyone in it. He killed mercilessly. He burned children and women alike. He murdered my family before my eyes."

His tone was even and short, as though it wasn't his own tale that he was recalling; as though it wasn't his bitter memories that he was spilling.

Malik's eyes widened. "What? _Why_?"

The thief was lost in his story. He didn't even notice Malik's reaction. "I was the only one who survived. The spirits of my people remained, damned to wander the village until they had attained revenge for what those troops had done."

For a moment, Malik didn't know what to say. So this thief had been wronged, his village had been murdered, and clearly, he was the only one left to avenge his people. But something didn't add up.

"I understand that you'd want to get revenge on whoever murdered your people," Malik began. "But what does that have to do with the Pharaoh? With the palace?"

The thief glanced up, as though just realizing that he was still telling Malik his story. Then, he suddenly let out a bark of laughter.

"Oh, yes. I forgot the most important detail. It turns out that the murder of my village wasn't simply a coincidence; it wasn't simply a bloodbath. The troops that attacked my village were part of your Kingdom, acting under the orders of the present Pharaoh. And their purpose was this—to use the bodies of my people to create a ritual. A ritual that, as I later found out, gave rise to the Millennium Items."

Malik recoiled at these words. His insides froze with disbelief.

"What?" he uttered. "That—_that_ was the ritual for the Millennium Items?"

The thief nodded. "It required the death of ninety-nine people, and _your_ Pharaoh ordered their creation, so he could protect his own Kingdom." His eyes narrowed with bitterness. "He killed my people to save his own."

Malik took a moment to absorb these facts. Though the thief was probably a good liar, Malik had no doubt that these statements were true. It explained, perfectly and clearly, why the thief hated the Kingdom and the Pharaoh so much. It also confirmed Malik's suspicion that the thief would do _anything_ to extract revenge.

"I had no idea," Malik finally said quietly. "The Kingdom has always believed the Millennium Items to be god-sent gifts. Their powers are suited for the capture of criminals, for unleashing punishment against wrong-doers. Who could have known that their birth was a murderous one?"

The thief simply continued staring at the blanket splayed around his feet. He looked deep in thought, perhaps contemplating the death of his family and his people again. Malik felt sorry that he'd brought it up, but now that the facts were between them, something could be done to avenge them, and free Malik of a lifestyle he didn't choose.

Malik rose from the floor, deciding that he'd found out as much as he needed to know from the prisoner. He glanced at the thief's wounds, resolving to change his bandages the next day, if the thief even let him near.

As Malik walked toward the door, he suddenly thought of something, and turned again.

"Thief?" he questioned, and the man's eyes rose to regard Malik. "What's your name?"

The man looked caught off-guard for a moment, as though surprised that Malik asked such a question, and then he smiled slightly.

"It's—Bakura."

The name settled in Malik's ear, as foreign and exotic as the man it belonged to.

"Bakura," Malik ran the word over his tongue. "I'll bring you a meal soon, and tomorrow I shall change your bandages. In the meantime, you should sleep to recover your strength."

The thief—Bakura now, Malik had to remind himself—looked startled by Malik's well-meaning words. His face softened a bit, as much as was possible for someone who most often scowled, frowned, or smirked.

"I suppose I misjudged your character," Bakura said, looking thoughtful. "Thank you—Malik."

And this time, Malik's name flowed from Bakura's mouth without sarcasm or derision, causing Malik to smile as he turned away and closed the door behind him. He ran Bakura's name over and over in his mind, thinking how strange it was suddenly, to think of this man as real and human, not merely a thief—simply by knowing his name.

* * *

**A/N:** Thanks for reading!

I hope you forgive the non-canon tattoo I mentioned on Bakura's arm; I thought that since Bakura usually wears those red robes in the anime, him having a tattoo on his arm would be a plausible concept. Also, the tattoo will become important later on.

Please let me know what you think! :)


	2. Chapter Two

**A/N:** Thanks so much to all who've been reading and/or reviewing this story! And thanks again to ChaosRocket for beta-ing this chapter so quickly. :)

* * *

Chapter Two

The next day, Malik stepped into the little storage closet with a plate of bread, a cup of water, and some fruit. Bakura was leaning against the wall with his eyes closed, resting. Malik cringed at the sight of blood seeping out of the bandages on his chest. Despite Bakura's quick movements the previous day, he was still very weak. His wounds had been breaking open.

As Malik placed the food and water on the cement floor, Bakura's eyes snapped open. Malik was caught in his entrancing gaze.

"I see that you intend to keep me," Bakura remarked, glancing at the food. He looked less wary than he had the previous day, though his lip curled upward. "Almost as a pet, I'd say."

Malik rolled his eyes. "Really, your gratitude is overwhelming. I'm keeping you alive so that when you're healed, we can work together to destroy the Pharaoh. Though you didn't quite say whether or not you agreed the other day."

Bakura scoffed. "As though I have a choice. I'll work with you as long as you keep up your end of the bargain—keep me alive."

"Consider it done," Malik smirked. "Though you'll have to start cooperating and quit scoffing when I offer you food or decide to change your bandages."

Bakura said nothing; he picked up the loaf of bread with his left hand and began eating. The impalement wound was on his right side, so Malik supposed it must be more difficult to work with his right arm.

Satisfied with this response, Malik brought out the medical kit he'd assembled several days ago, containing gauze, ointment, and some medicinal herbs.

Bakura swallowed the grapes on the plate and gulped down the water thirstily. Then, he paused to watch Malik pull out the gauze.

"So, you'll change my bandages," he said simply.

Malik sat down close beside Bakura, and began untying the bloodied bandages around his chest. His fingers were a bit unsteady while in Bakura's close proximity and under his unyielding gaze.

"I promised, didn't I?" he replied, not looking into the thief's eyes.

Bakura said nothing. He sat still while Malik's fingers worked methodically and unraveled the dirty bandages knotted elaborately around Bakura's shoulders, chest, and abdomen. Malik dropped the red, wet bandages on the floor and examined the wound.

It had hardly healed. The flesh was raw, red, and fresh blood was still seeping out, causing Malik to cringe as he stared. The hole was still quite visible, and Malik tried to gulp down his breakfast before it could come back up.

"You'd better hurry, this feels much worse than it looks," Bakura drawled.

Malik forced himself to ignore his queasy stomach. He had hardly any knowledge of anatomy or medicine, so he simply did what seemed appropriate. He dipped a small cloth into warm water, brought the fabric to Bakura's chest, and carefully began cleaning it. The water slid down Bakura's chest in pink rivulets, seeping into his waistcloth.

The longer Malik worked, the more his thoughts drifted. He ran the cloth over Bakura's abdomen, his eyes lingering on the man's taut muscles, and then brought it back to his bronze chest. Despite himself, Malik took note of Bakura's sinewy, strong arms, and his naked torso; better still, he found his gaze drift to his lower abdomen.

Malik blushed when he looked up and noticed that Bakura was staring at him; he'd quite obviously noticed Malik's conspicuous glances, although he simply looked amused.

"I think my chest is already quite clean, Malik," Bakura smirked.

Malik lowered his gaze to avoid Bakura's teasing one, and pulled the ointment out of his medical kit. Malik's heart beat faster then, when he realized that he'd be running his bare hands over Bakura's chest using the ointment, not simply using a cloth. He tried to clear his head, not understanding why he was getting flustered all of a sudden.

Malik placed a bit of ointment on his fingers, and then pressed his hands over Bakura's skin, running the ointment over the wound, and all around it. Bakura hissed and tensed, irritated by the sting of the salve, as well as the pressure of Malik's fingers. But the more Malik caressed the flesh around the wound, the more Bakura loosened again and his taut muscles unwound. Malik ran his fingers over Bakura's abdomen, listlessly moving of his own accord, applying salve further and further from the wound.

When Malik's hand had drifted much further from the wound, over the taut muscles of the thief's abdomen, Bakura suddenly placed his hand upon Malik's. Bakura caught his eye, his gaze questioning this time.

Malik tensed, unsure why he'd done that. The more he'd run his fingers over Bakura, the more he'd wanted to touch him. He flushed, trying not to look into Bakura's inquiring gaze.

"Malik," he said, and Malik looked up, like a child about to be scolded.

Bakura's eyes were mesmerizing. It was these devilish looks, Malik realized, that had gotten him into this situation; that had gotten him flustered and his heart beating madly. Before he knew it, Bakura continued.

"Have you ever been with a woman?"

Malik was caught off-guard.

"A woman?" he repeated rather dumbly, before his tongue began working again. "Of course not! I'm only sixteen. You yourself pointed out I was merely a child."

Bakura shrugged. "That's not so young of an age. I'm sure there are plenty of women who'd be intrigued by your looks."

"My looks?" Malik said stupidly again.

"Yes, your blond hair, your lavender eyes. They're rather exotic." Then Bakura smirked. "Of course, your mouth still needs some work, because no woman would want a stubborn boy like you."

Malik crossed his arms. "Stubborn? Look who's talking, asshole. You're the one with an attitude problem."

Bakura laughed, and Malik was momentarily caught off-guard by the hearty sound. Bakura seemed in much higher spirits than he had the previous day.

"That may be the case, but women are driven away by worse things than an attitude." Saying this, Bakura looked more serious. "Being with a criminal, for example, is not something many women desire."

His dark tone caught Malik by surprise again, who had nothing to say to that. He'd never realized that Bakura was probably quite lonely. He didn't have a criminal companion and he had no family. And as he'd just pointed out, no normal woman would take him for a husband with his reputation.

Bakura's next words brought Malik out of his thoughts.

"Anyway, I was simply curious when I asked if you've been with a woman," he continued. "Though I'll point out that you should try it out, so that you can sort out your reactions."

Malik looked up sharply.

"What reactions?"

Bakura smirked at Malik's sharp tone. But he didn't immediately answer. Instead, Bakura brought his left hand to Malik's face, cupping it, and then leaned forward so they were nose to nose.

Malik immediately tensed. His lips parted, as though a gasp was stuck somewhere between his throat and his lips.

"What—Bakura, what are you doing?"

Bakura's smile increased and his breath blew over Malik's ear as he spoke:

"You really are a child."

Using the hand he'd cupped around Malik's face, he pulled him forward, until Malik was forced to lean over and had to hastily place a hand on Bakura's thigh so he wouldn't fall onto the thief.

"The types of reactions you get…" Bakura whispered, his voice gruff and low in Malik's ear. "…when I do things like this."

Bakura pulled back from his ear so they were nose to nose again. And before Malik could stop him, Bakura pressed his lips to Malik's parted ones.

Malik's eyes widened. His heart nearly burst out of his chest.

Though he was momentarily captivated by the gray eyes that met his as Bakura kissed him, as Bakura moved his wind-cracked, desert-chapped lips against Malik's smooth ones, as he ran his warm, wet tongue over Malik's parted lips—a moment later, Malik struggled in his grasp. He resisted and pushed Bakura away, disentangling himself from the thief's hands.

"I—I can't," Malik breathed, pulling away quickly.

He stood up, at that instant wanting to be as far away from Bakura as possible. His heart was beating miles per minute. He was unbelievably turned on, but couldn't understand why—this was a man who'd just kissed him, for Ra's sake.

And still. Bakura's kiss had numbed his lips. Malik ran a hand through his hair, attempting to calm down and sort out his emotions. But one look at Bakura and his heart galloped again.

"Look, Malik," Bakura said, sitting up. "I meant nothing by that. I was just pointing out that you might reconsider your sexual preferences. The way you kept looking at me while you were changing my bandages was a dead giveaway that you might not be so interested in women."

"I'm perfectly interested in women, you bastard!" Malik snarled, his emotions going haywire. "What gives you the right to act so impulsive—so unpredictable—anyway? One day you try to kill me, another day you try to throw your tongue down my throat?"

Bakura opened his mouth to reply, but Malik refused to hear it.

He strode out the door, slamming it behind him, leaving Bakura alone and immobile in the little storage closet.

Malik pressed a hand to the cool wall of his room to steady himself. He was fascinated with this thief. He was captivated. He wanted to save him and heal him and stand beside him. _Why_?

He didn't know.

But for several hours, Malik paced his room in this state of denial, attempting to understand what could possibly draw him to such a jaded, narrow-eyed thief. And it was only hours later that he realized that he'd left the storage closet in a such a hurry, he'd forgotten to finish bandaging Bakura's wounds. He was probably lying on the hard floor, his raw flesh exposed, bleeding, and possibly getting infected.

Malik bit his lip and forced the emotions out of his head. Whatever his discomfort with the thief at the moment, he needed to help him heal. He'd promised.

So Malik returned to the little room, unsure what to say when he met the thief face to face.

But the gods had smiled upon Malik, because Bakura was fast asleep in the bloodied blankets and Malik didn't have to exchange a single word. He examined the slow, strenuous way Bakura's chest rose as he breathed, and realized that although Bakura wasn't showing it, although he appeared to move effortlessly and painlessly, he was still quite close to death. Romance should have been the last thing on Malik's mind if he wanted to save this man.

Thus, Malik proceeded to carefully move Bakura to his side and clean the deep gashes on his back. He covered the swollen area with ointment, and then wrapped his back with clean gauze. After repositioning him again, Malik reapplied the drying salve on Bakura's chest, and wrapped his torso in gauze. Bakura slept through it all.

And then quietly, Malik left the room.

The days became predictable after that.

Malik visited the storage closet several times a day to bring bread, fruit, and water to replenish Bakura's strength. He changed his bandages and brought him a new blanket after the old one became too filthy. He sat at Bakura's side while the latter ate and drank thirstily.

But while they spoke about the Pharaoh, the palace, and their pasts, they never again mentioned the kiss that had pushed Malik away.

Bakura slept most of the time, he ate every morsel he was offered, and slowly—after months of this predictable routine—he healed.

His impalement wound closed with the speed of growing grass—rather imperceptibly. But after it did heal, the white scar that remained was a spider web of flesh that would forever remind Bakura of how close he'd been to death. And how thankful he should be to Malik for healing him. The gashes on his back were less mean-looking, stripes of white flesh, a zebra pattern against his bronze skin.

Then, that day came. The day when Malik had to lay the cards out and discuss their options regarding the Pharaoh, now that Bakura was sufficiently strong again.

"I've observed the way the high court reveres its Millennium Items," Malik said, leaning against the wall beside Bakura. Though Malik had initially reacted against any physical attraction he had for Bakura, over the past several months, he had nonetheless learned to appreciate his companionship.

Bakura snorted. "I'm not surprised. Those bastards are worthless without the Items. They would be powerless without them."

"Yes, but I was thinking—we could use the Items against them."

"Really?" Bakura raised an eyebrow. "And how would we do that?"

Malik worried his bottom lip, looking deep in thought. "I've heard of some of the powers of the Items, and seen them used on criminals. Controlling minds, sorting out the liars from the non-liars, seeing the past and the future."

"I'm well-acquainted with those powers," Bakura remarked darkly. The Great Kenbet used these powers to decide how to punish prisoners, so naturally, Bakura had been subject to their flawless capabilities.

"You haven't been acquainted with them all," Malik continued cryptically.

Bakura looked skeptical. "Oh? What other powers are there?"

"You must know that the Items can seal dark creatures into stone tablets," Malik said. "Well, that also applies to souls."

"Souls?"

Malik nodded, looking quite pleased to reveal this. "You can seal souls into the Millennium Items, any one of them, and the soul will remain intact in the Item for years. Millennia, perhaps, though this has never been done before, of course. All it would require would be to bring the soul-bearer close enough to death that the soul could travel freely into the Item."

But Bakura simply scoffed, apparently not as impressed with these revelations as Malik had hoped. "Even if that could be done, what's the point? I have no desire to seal anybody, the Pharaoh least of all. I'd rather watch him die a slow, painful death than let him live for millennia."

Malik looked disappointed that his idea wasn't met with more warmth, though he had to admit that in retrospect, it wasn't such a great idea after all.

"But I would like to obtain one of the Millennium Items," Bakura continued. "Perhaps more than one, if possible."

"And which one has caught your attention?" Malik asked. In the past few months, he'd gotten to know Bakura quite well. And the gleam in his eye was something he saw often when Bakura thought about his revenge.

Bakura didn't pause to think. "The Ring."

Malik raised an eyebrow. "What's so special about the Ring? If I were you, I'd steal the Millennium Rod. Amongst some of its most powerful assets, it can control minds. That's far more valuable than anything the Ring can do."

But Bakura didn't look swayed. "There's something about the Ring that draws me to it. There's some providence in it for me, as though I'm meant to own it."

Malik said nothing, because he very much believed in providence himself.

"Are you still set on helping me then?" Bakura asked. "If it means stealing one of the most powerful weapons this Kingdom has, from under the very nose of your sister and the high court?"

Malik had considered this many times—he would betray Isis if he truly meant to help Bakura—but decided that he couldn't live an underground life forever, no matter what; he would do everything in his power to escape it.

"Yes," Malik answered shortly. "I'll help you."

Bakura's eyebrows furrowed. "And you expect nothing from me in return?"

Several months ago, Bakura wouldn't have even let Malik help him, but now he seemed to think Malik expected something back from him. What a turn-about.

"No, I don't. There's nothing I need from you; or nothing I can think of at the moment," Malik replied thoughtfully. "But there's something I've been curious about. It's rather silly, though."

Bakura's eyebrows rose, in prompt for Malik to continue.

"What does the writing on your arm mean?" Malik asked, feeling slightly foolish for bringing this up.

Bakura looked caught off-guard. "My arm?"

He looked down at his right arm and examined the tattoo that had been inked into his bronze skin. Malik had caught sight of the tattoo the first time he'd bandaged the thief's wounds, but had never asked about it due to the personal nature of such things.

The tattoo consisted of three images, arranged in a single line in black ink: that of a wicker stool, a loaf of bread, and a flax wick. Bakura stared at it for a moment, his gaze darkening.

"I can't read the writing, of course, but I was told what it meant when they plastered it onto my skin—Ptah, it reads, the creator of the world. Prisoners often receive this tattoo as a mark of dishonor," Bakura scoffed. "As if to say that our ways go against those of the creator."

Malik listened quietly, and then, impulsively, reached out and took Bakura's right arm to better examine the tattoo. Bakura flinched momentarily, not having expected the movement, but loosened just as quickly.

"When did you get this?" Malik asked, very carefully and slowly running his fingers over the three images, one by one. He sidled up closer to Bakura to study the tattoo in detail.

Bakura didn't seem to mind as Malik leaned close to him. "Years and years ago, when I did some petty crime. I can't even recall what it was; it seemed so small compared to the other things I've done. But it has served not as a mark of dishonor to me, but as a reminder of my purpose—the revenge for my people."

"They had no idea, when they'd caught you back then, what a great thief you'd become today," Malik commented, causing Bakura to look up in surprise at the praise.

They lapsed into silence then. Bakura sat quietly with his back to the wall, and allowed Malik to mindlessly and unconsciously caress the ink on his arm. Malik could see the deep thoughts clouding Bakura's mind as he stared unfocusedly at his own right arm.

Over the past several months, Malik had come to terms with the tacit attraction he held for Bakura. It was simply surprising, at first, all the emotions he'd felt when Bakura first kissed him. Now, he wished he hadn't reacted so strongly, because it was all Malik could do not to lean over and kiss Bakura right at that moment.

"Bakura?" Malik broke the silence.

Bakura glanced up, and caught Malik with the gray stare he still wasn't accustomed to seeing.

"Back then, when I first brought you to my home," Malik began, not sure why he was bringing this up now, "back when I first re-bandaged your wounds and we spoke about…" He drifted off, unsure how to continue.

Bakura simply looked blank and unreadable, though he seemed to know what Malik was going to ask. "When we spoke about what?"

Malik said nothing for a moment, and didn't meet Bakura's piercing eyes.

"Why did you kiss me?"

Silence stretched momentarily, and Malik simply listened to his quick-beating heart, thinking himself foolish for acting so sentimental over what was probably nothing.

Bakura's lips slowly stretched into a smirk. "Took you long enough to bring that up." He paused as if to consider it, and then shrugged. "I had no clear motives right then. I thought I was about to die, so fooling around seemed like a great idea at the time."

This disappointed Malik. He'd thought the reasoning would be a little deeper than that. "I see."

Bakura's smirk increased. "Why do you ask, anyway? Did you change your mind about liking it?"

Malik's face heated up. "No. I just wanted to know, that's all."

But Bakura had also gotten to know Malik quite well in the past few months. Rather than retorting, as he usually would, he brought his left hand to Malik's face, cupping it, and leaned in so Malik could feel the warm breath over his face as he spoke.

"You're not fooling anybody, you know."

Malik's throat went dry. His eyes widened slightly, in surprise that Bakura would so willingly invite intimacy after Malik's brief departure so many months ago. But presented with this opportunity, Malik wouldn't squander it.

He leaned forward to close the small distance and pressed his lips to Bakura's.

Bakura seemed surprised at his forwardness, but otherwise reacted swiftly and brought his arms around Malik to pull him closer. He opened his mouth, and Malik languidly licked the bottom of his lip, enjoying the lingering taste of fruit on Bakura's tongue. Their first kiss had been short, spontaneous, and incomplete. This one was anything but those things. Malik took his time in exploring the thief, in pressing his tongue over the soft and warm regions of Bakura's mouth, in pushing him back, further into the wall, and crawling on top.

He felt Bakura smirk as Malik pressed himself close. Malik felt lightheaded. He'd never done anything of the sort with a woman, least of all a man. He'd thought of this moment often in the past several months. He thought it would be awkward; he thought their angular hips would get in the way, their chests would feel too flat against each other; he thought he'd have no clue where to put his arms or where to press his lips. But there was no thinking involved. His mouth and his hands moved of their own accord—tentatively, but naturally.

Bakura pulled Malik closer, until their body parts were flush against one another. Malik felt lightheaded and giddy, and pulled his mouth away to kiss Bakura's neck. Bakura arched, and threw his head back, so a great expanse of skin was available for Malik to kiss. Tentatively, Malik licked the crook of his shoulder, and upon hearing Bakura's breath catch, he bit down gently, feeling Bakura tense up.

"If you keep this up, I'm flipping you over and doing as I please with you," Bakura growled.

Malik smirked. "That doesn't sound like a threat."

But Bakura clearly didn't think so. He straightened up and pushed Malik back a bit.

"Either way, I think we should take this slow. I don't want to chase you away for three months like the last time."

Malik thought it over and decided that maybe taking things slow would be for the best. So, in agreement, he kissed Bakura firmly on the lips, and crawled off of him.

"Alright. Fair enough. Besides, your wound may have healed, but you still need to rest to ensure it doesn't break open again, so I guess I can't be too rough with you yet."

Bakura simply snorted at that, but smiled nonetheless.


	3. Chapter Three

**A/N:** I'm so sorry for the late update! Unfortunately, school and work and extracurricular activities have taken priority for a while. Thanks so much to ChaosRocket for editing this chapter so quickly!

Just an FYI, this story is going into M territory starting with this chapter.

* * *

Chapter Three

Malik was lovesick. Every moment he had alone with Bakura was spent sitting by his side, watching him eat, kissing him senseless, and checking Bakura's impalement wound to see if it had truly healed. Bakura was amused by Malik's devotion, but nevertheless pleased whenever Malik crawled over him and kissed him until he was panting and wishing for more.

Weeks passed in this fashion, but the more time Bakura spent in the makeshift bedroom, the more he began to brood and consider his ordeal. Malik could see the restlessness in his eyes, could feel the tenseness in his shoulders, as Bakura formulated plans to defeat the Pharaoh and exact his revenge. He could tell that, although they had agreed to work together, Bakura would be the one doing most of the work and fighting on the front lines.

It was on the morning that the new Pharaoh ascended to the throne that Malik walked into the closet with some fruit and water and Bakura announced:

"I'm going to the old Pharaoh's tomb today."

Malik stood still for a moment, caught by surprise. But quite calmly, he asked, "What business do you have with the old Pharaoh's tomb?"

"I'll take the old king's sarcophagus to the palace, and before that worthless high court I will reveal my grudge against the Pharaoh," Bakura said evenly.

Malik simply stared at him.

"You'll be killed."

But Bakura smiled. "They already think I'm dead. That's the beauty of my circumstances—they'll be unsuspecting. And I've learned my lesson the hard way. Believe me, I'll be very, very cautious."

Malik sighed, and placed the fruit and water down by Bakura's blanket. There was no arguing with Bakura once he made up his mind—that Malik had learned over the past few months. And Bakura clearly intended to do something scandalous to get the high court's attention once again.

"And what will you do after that?" Malik asked, wondering how many more plans Bakura had concocted in his brooding silence.

"My next intent is to get the Millennium Ring," Bakura replied with a gleam in his eye.

Malik sat down on the ratty blanket and picked up a cluster of grapes. "So what will you have me do in the meantime?"

"You," Bakura said, as he threw an arm over Malik's shoulder, "can be my eyes and ears within the palace."

Malik cocked an eyebrow. "And what exactly needs to be watched and heard around here? It's always just boring palace politics. Nothing of interest has happened since you were impaled and escaped the palace's attention."

"But thanks to you, I'm all better, and fit to terrorize the palace once again."

"Indeed," Malik remarked tartly and popped a grape into his mouth.

"In all seriousness though, once I reveal that I'm not dead, the security will be much tighter around the palace, and I'll need to lie as low as possible. I'll need you to eavesdrop on the high court and tell me what they're doing. They're going to be in a state of panic after I attack, and I'll need to know their every move afterward to be several steps ahead."

Malik thought this over. "Alright. What do you mean by _attack,_ though? Not an actual physical attack?"

Bakura smirked, and looked as though he had a well-kept secret. "You know about their stone tablets, right? The ones they use to lock away monsters?"

"Of course."

"Well, I'm planning to use a part of myself, my ka, to attack them," Bakura revealed. "They'll use their tablet monsters to retaliate, but my ka—Diabound—is quite strong, and has grown stronger over the years. It's what kept me alive after my family died and I had to fend for myself."

Malik frowned, a bit frightful that Bakura was just overestimating his abilities. "Are you sure you want to take on the whole court? They have strong monsters. They could easily overpower you."

"No, they won't," Bakura replied shortly. "I've killed people using my ka before, when I was in particularly tough situations. Despite their Millennium Items, the court won't be a match against me. You're forgetting, Malik, that I've been preparing for this moment my entire life. All my skills and expertise are honed precisely for revenge."

Malik knew how useless it was to argue with Bakura, especially since the thief had such a just cause to pursue, but a knot of worry still settled in Malik's stomach. "Fine, if you trust in yourself so thoroughly, then I have no choice but to trust you, too. When are you coming back?"

"Tomorrow morning, before sunrise. I'll leave here at dusk to retrieve the old sarcophagus, and steal a horse from town to make my entrance."

"And the sarcophagus is necessary?" Malik asked, thinking what a strange sight it would make at the palace.

"Entirely," Bakura smiled.

And so, later that day, Bakura did exactly as he'd said, and snuck out of the little closet at dusk. Malik had brought him some food just before his departure, and kissed him firmly, still having misgivings about Bakura's supposed prowess.

He went to bed early, but couldn't sleep. He knew that Isis would be at the palace with the rest of the court, and battle Bakura when he made his outrageous entrance. He just hoped the thief knew what he was doing, and also sent a prayer to the gods that Isis wouldn't hurt him.

Malik tossed and turned, and after several hours of this, gave up entirely and simply lay in bed, staring at the ceiling. His stomach was in knots and he imagined all sorts of scenarios where Bakura was captured again, held prisoner, and properly killed this time; he imagined the court apprehending and killing him on the spot with their stone monsters; fear was errant and venomous in his veins, causing Malik to realize that Bakura's revenge had been a thing of the future up until now. It wasn't something he'd even considered; before now, he'd only been trying to keep Bakura alive.

In the early hours of the morning, Malik stood from bed and tiptoed to the little closet, but found the room empty. He dropped down in the little pile of blankets Bakura had been sleeping in, and breathed in the thief's scent, hoping that it had all gone according to plan. He rested his head on the blankets, dug in deeper, and drifted off to sleep.

It seemed only minutes later that he heard quiet footsteps approaching the room, and a whisper.

"Malik? What are you doing here?"

The sound of Bakura's voice made Malik bolt upward.

"Waiting for you, of course!"

And without waiting for a reply, Malik rushed forward and embraced Bakura, nearly knocking the man backward. Bakura laughed quietly, pushing Malik back into the little closet.

"It went well, I suppose? You don't look hurt." Malik stepped back and examined him to ascertain that Bakura wasn't injured.

Bakura reached into one of the shelves and lit a candle, which he placed between them so they could see each other. Their shadows were thrown against the walls behind them in the small glow.

"You clearly don't have much faith in me, if you have to ask a question like that," Bakura teased. His eyes were bright and fervent with adventure. "Yes, it was excellent. The high court looked as though they had all been slapped in the face when they saw me with the sarcophagus. Their faces alone were a sight worth seeing. Of course, the most wonderful thing of all was my Diabound. He towered over their monsters, just as I told you he would."

Malik felt an unconscious tension unwind from his shoulders. He'd been worried all night, and now that he knew Bakura was safe, the threat seemed to pass. The release of tension was short-lived, however, because the next thing Bakura said wound him up all over again.

"The young Pharaoh managed to summon one of the gods, however, which rather surprised me," Bakura said thoughtfully.

"The gods!" Malik echoed, shocked out of his wits that the young Pharaoh could do such a thing.

But Bakura merely smiled. "Obelisk, it was. Not to worry; my Diabound was equal to his power. As I said, their stone monsters were no match. In fact, I found the old Pharaoh's Diadiankh in his tomb, and used his own monsters against the court."

Malik smiled. "I'm sure your insolence surprised them."

"Yes. They attempted to seal my Diabound, but failed, of course. I eyed the Millennium Ring; it was on a magician, Mahad. And that'll be my next step," Bakura said. In the small glow of the candle, Malik could tell that this particularly excited him. "I'll need your help now, though."

"To watch the palace?" Malik guessed.

Bakura nodded. "I need to know when this magician will act and where he'll go, so that I can follow him."

"Consider it done. I'll wander the palace halls today to see what other news I can pick up," Malik said fervently. He wanted to be as much help to Bakura as possible. He had no allies besides himself, after all.

Bakura's eyes softened at hearing the assuring words and he reached toward Malik, pulling him close.

"I've been thinking about my revenge so much lately, I haven't had a single moment for you, have I?"

Malik smiled, and slipped his hands into Bakura's white hair as he settled closer to the thief.

"Not at all. This is what you've been chasing after for years, so I understand completely. Though I have to admit, I've missed your more tender side."

Bakura smirked, and leaned forward to kiss Malik's neck. "Let me make up for it, then."

And he made good on his promise. He pulled Malik on top of himself, kissing him hungrily and slipping his hands under Malik's robe, as the latter squirmed under his touches and breathlessly kissed him back. The anxiety and worry Malik had felt during the sleepless night was gone; Bakura's revenge was pushed back for the moment and replaced by something momentarily more persistent.

Their innocent touches weren't enough, because soon Bakura's hands skimmed across Malik's legs, near the bottom of his robe, and pulled the material upward, over Malik's hips, over his chest, and over his head, until he dispatched of the robe. Fumbling, Malik pulled Bakura's red robes off, and dispatched of the tan headpiece that he must have stolen from the old Pharaoh's tomb.

As soon as the barriers were gone, Bakura's hands roamed over Malik's body. He pressed his calloused fingertips over Malik's back and pulled him close, until their bare chests touched and their legs entangled in a blur of bronze. Bakura's musky smell enamored Malik. Malik's skin had heated, sensitive to Bakura's languid touches. Malik felt himself grow hard, and in their proximity, felt Bakura do the same.

When Bakura suddenly twitched below Malik, against his own member, Malik moaned and ground their hips together. His heart beat wildly and his blood rushed downward. Bakura arched, and, growing tired of all this clothing still between them, reached down to pull apart Malik's waistcloth. Smirking and getting the hint, Malik unwound Bakura's waistcloth as well. Their clothing was thrown aside carelessly.

The feel of their bare hips and skin pressed together was indescribable. Malik heated at the contact of their bare groins, but pressed, and pressed closer, thinking there was still not enough contact between their warm bodies. There wasn't a single coherent thought in his head, no regard for where he kissed or where he licked, but only the need to culminate this pleasure. Bakura bit the crook of his shoulder deeply, and Malik arched and threw his head back, digging his fingernails into Bakura's sides as he unconsciously began to thrust against him. Bakura smirked against his neck, and bucked his hips in response, meeting and mirroring Malik's moves.

Then Bakura grabbed him _right there_ and worked his hand up and down. It was all too much. Malik moaned helplessly, surprised by how good it all felt, and it wasn't long before he came, his lips parting, shuddering and collapsing on top of Bakura. The very rawness of these feelings shocked him; they had pushed him over the edge more quickly than he'd thought possible. He buzzed with satisfaction, unable to believe how easy and natural this pleasure had been.

Then, in a rewarding gesture, Malik reached down and did the same for Bakura, touching him with the same strokes. A few moments later, Bakura made a particularly guttural noise and bucked his hips once more beneath Malik, as he came. Malik laid his head into the crook of Bakura's neck, feeling unusual yet completely at peace. Bakura sighed deeply and mindlessly stroked Malik's hair as they lay side by side.

A few minutes after this relaxed afterglow, Bakura sat up to grab a rag by the blanket, and began cleaning himself up. Malik stared at him, a bit dazed, his face still quite flushed.

"So Malik, I'm curious," Bakura said suddenly, breaking the silence, as he glanced at Malik briefly. "Are you still perfectly interested in women?"

At this, Malik simply gave a hearty laugh and kissed Bakura, unable to believe that a few months ago he'd even considered doing something like this with anyone other than this exotic, jaded thief.

* * *

**A/N: **This is actually my first story with explicit romantic scenes; usually I just gloss over them with minimal description, but I decided to go all out for this story. Hopefully they're alright?

Let me know what you think about the chapter!


	4. Chapter Four

**A/N:** All I have to say is - **lemon warning**! Enjoy!

* * *

Chapter Four

Later that morning, Malik slipped into the palace and hunted for news. He could tell right away that Bakura's entrance last night had gotten the scandalized effect he'd wanted. The members of the inner court rushed about from one part of the palace to the other, discussing what should be done about another possible attack by their intruder.

Malik spent several hours standing in the shadows of columns and corridors, listening to their frantic voices. He heard one particular conversation that surprised him.

Isis and Mahad were speaking in the courtyard. It was apparent that his sister had been attempting to search her Millennium Necklace for answers about the future, but by the fearful tone of her voice, she'd been unsuccessful for the most part. Mahad likewise revealed that his Ring had been acting strangely. Mahad reassured her that their young Pharaoh would lead them through this darkness.

Later that day, Isis and Mahad met again, and Malik overheard Isis' warning.

"You mustn't ride out, Mahad. I sensed a dark future ahead of you through the Necklace."

But Mahad simply smiled. "I would prefer not to know, Isis. My Pharaoh needs me, and I won't let him down."

And without a word, he gathered his men and prepared to ride out.

Shortly after hearing this, Malik descended into the little closet to warn Bakura of what he'd heard.

"Excellent," Bakura smirked as he stood. "He'll be expecting me to follow. It'll be the chance I'm looking for. And better still, their Millennium Items seem to be acting up due to my presence. I think my Diabound may have even grown stronger in the last day."

Bakura left shortly and Malik sat listlessly in the little pile of blankets, now more worried than ever. Bakura may have caught the court by surprise, but they were now aware of the danger and would do everything in their power to capture Bakura again, and properly sentence him to death. Before, Malik had simply thought of the thief as a partner who'd help him achieve his ends—now it had transcended beyond that. Bakura was his lover and his friend. The very possibility of Bakura's death left Malik breathless and fearful; it drew a complete blank in his mind. He'd have nothing if Bakura died. He'd have no purpose and no future.

To get his mind off of this terrible possibility, he grabbed a little ceramic jar from the shelves of the closet, where he'd long ago discovered some kohl. And in his listlessness, he ran the powder over his right arm carefully and drew the shape of a wicker stool, then next to it a loaf of bread, and lastly, in the single line, he drew a flax wick.

It was the shape of Bakura's tattoo, which was imprinted in his right arm, and always reminded him of his revenge.

On Malik's arm, it would be something else. It would represent Malik's unyielding loyalty to the thief; it would be his promise to stand by Bakura no matter how dark the coming events.

Bakura returned the next morning, and before Malik could jump up and embrace him, he opened his red robes and revealed the Millennium Ring, which lay gracefully and appropriately upon his bronze chest.

"You've managed it," Malik breathed as he stood up to appraise him.

Bakura stepped into the closet and drew Malik close. "Yes, thanks to your warning, I apprehended Mahad. He did a rather lousy trick and trapped us in a stone cave, but my Diabound was too strong for him. He did a foolish thing, really—something he called an ultimate unification. He sacrificed his life to fuse with his magician monster. But it was no matter. I got the Ring nonetheless."

Malik smiled, and pressed his face into Bakura's robes, breathing in the scent of desert sand and victory. He glanced up, knowing that Bakura would be gone again soon on some other undertaking. "What will you do next?"

Bakura mindlessly stroked Malik's hair. "I'm going into the palace, stealthily this time. It's high time I had a chat with Aknadin and see if I can acquire another Millennium Item."

Bakura's eyes were distant. He had been living in the future these past few days, examining the next step before the present one was even complete.

"It's drawing to a close soon, isn't it?" Malik asked shrewdly. He could tell that Bakura's actions over the past several days were singularly aiming for the goal; his revenge was firm and clear in his mind and the events would culminate soon.

"Yes, it won't be long now," Bakura agreed. "I've been rushing to bring about the end quickly, before the court has time to gather together and stop me. They have it in them, I know it, but if they're still as scattered as they are now, I have a chance."

Bakura had been sitting with Malik close by his side, and as he glanced at the boy, he suddenly caught sight of the tattoo Malik had copied onto his own arm in kohl. The powder had smudged in the past several hours, but the images were still clear. Bakura took Malik's wrist gently.

"You drew my tattoo over your arm?" he asked, smiling.

Malik blushed. "I had nothing to do while you were gone. I thought you'd like it."

"I do. It may be a temporary mark, but it pleases me to see it." He brought Malik closer, kissing him on the lips.

"It doesn't have to be temporary, you know. Not if I write it on my arm every day. It'll be a sort of link, representing our partnership."

Bakura kissed Malik on the crook of his shoulder and his lips moved over Malik's skin as he spoke.

"Thank you, Malik. It's things like these that make me think…I love you."

He pulled back to stare at Malik meaningfully.

For a moment, Malik's heart stopped at hearing the words. He'd sensed that their relationship had transcended the physical for a while now, and entered something much deeper and more significant. He couldn't reply for a moment, because the feelings were too much.

Instead, he simply pushed Bakura back into the wall and kissed him more fervently than he ever had before. He didn't have to say the words, because Bakura surmised quickly enough that Malik felt the same.

* * *

While Bakura was gone, stealthily slipping through the palace corridors to find Aknadin, Malik wandered the palace as well, searching the area for clues as to what the court was planning. He sat by the stone columns and listened to palace conversations, but didn't find much of interest.

When he returned to the little closet in his underground chambers, toward the evening, he found Bakura sitting on the ratty blankets, eating some expensive fruit that Malik deduced he'd stolen from the markets while he'd been out. Every time Malik saw Bakura back in his home, safe and alive, he felt a little jolt of happiness in his stomach, and relayed his gratitude to the gods.

"The little chat went well?" Malik sat beside Bakura.

"Yes, and more besides. I met the Pharaoh again outside the palace, and while battling him with Diabound, he procured Slifer."

"Really?" Malik asked, his eyes widening. "The Pharaoh must have considerable power if he could call upon another god."

"Indeed," Bakura sounded resentful. "It's no matter, though. My next step will be the last. I'll lead the entire court toward Kul Elna, the village where my vengeance started. There they'll learn the extent of the old Pharaoh's treachery, and the young Pharaoh will suffer for it."

"And what after that?" Malik asked, for he hadn't heard any plans past those.

Bakura hesitated, and then looked at Malik seriously. "This will be the last night I'm coming back here, Malik. Tomorrow, I'll lead them to Kul Elna; they'll follow after Isis sees a vision of me being there. Once they're all gathered by the stone tablet in the village, I'll take their Millennium Items. It has long been my guess that gathering all the items in that particular spot will unleash unspeakable power. It's this power that will enable me to get my revenge.

"I don't know all the details of the ritual that created the items, however. And that's where I'll need your help again," Bakura glanced at Malik, gathering his undivided attention.

"What do you need me to do?" Malik asked without hesitation.

"The entire inner court—therefore all the Millennium Items—will be gathering at Kul Elna. While they're gone, the room where they've kept their stone monsters will be empty. There are shelves deep in that room that contain scrolls about the creation of the items. I'll need those scrolls to understand exactly what the power of the gathered items will mean."

Malik frowned. "But neither of us can read them. What use would they be to you?"

"The matter of deciphering is simple enough. All we have to do is find a willing scribe and pay him off to read out the scrolls' secrets. It wouldn't be a difficult task. Would you be willing to do it, though? Find the scrolls, get a horse from town, and head to Kul Elna?"

"Yes," Malik said firmly. "I'll do it."

Bakura looked pleased. "Great. Then all that remains is the details."

The rest of the night, Bakura and Malik sat on the old blankets, covering all the details of their plan. Bakura told Malik exactly how to find the haunted village and what to look for in the scrolls. He coached him on being stealthy and what to do in case someone caught him. He even gave Malik tips on how to go about stealing a horse.

It must have been two or three in the morning by the time their conspiratorial talk ceased and they simply sat, leaning against the wall and talking about other things.

Malik had a particular doubt he finally expressed. It was a natural thing to worry, and the past several days Malik had had the nagging feeling that things had been going _too_ well, too much according to plan.

"What if something goes wrong? What if your plans are intercepted and they manage to fool you?" And, in a quieter voice, Malik asked, "What if you're hurt?"

Bakura smiled and wrapped his arms around Malik. "Don't worry. My plans have gone remarkably well so far. They still underestimate my abilities. They're still scattered. They don't know how to stop me."

That didn't quite pacify Malik, but settled his worry for the moment. Perhaps Bakura did stand a chance if the inner court continued to be unsuspecting of Bakura's movements.

"After your revenge, you'll run off, won't you?" Malik asked as another doubt emerged. "You'll go off into the desert to live the rest of your life?"

"Yes," Bakura said simply, and tugged Malik closer. "But I'll be awfully lonely without a companion."

Malik smiled. "You won't mind me joining you, then, will you?"

Bakura stared quietly in Malik's eyes for a moment. "I haven't broached this subject yet because I know how great the palace life must be for you. I doubt you'd want to live a thief's life with me."

"You're wrong," Malik returned simply. "My life isn't that great here, as I told you the first time we met. I'd rather live out the rest of it _out there_, in the desert, in the unknown. With you."

Bakura said nothing, but it was clear by the tenderness in his face that he appreciated the words. He leaned forward and pressed his lips to Malik's, slipping his hands into the blond strands, and opened his mouth to let Malik deepen the kiss. Malik closed his eyes and enjoyed the feel of Bakura's hands in his hair as he explored Bakura's warm mouth. He knew that their conversation didn't seem quite over; there were many doubts Malik still had about Bakura's plans. But they had discussed those sorts of things enough, and for the moment, thinking had to be cast aside.

Malik shifted and wrapped his arms around Bakura, pressing his fingertips over his back, enjoying the warmth of Bakura's body beneath him. Their movements had begun languidly, but now there was a tinge of hurry to them. Bakura bit Malik's shoulder a bit more forcefully, and Malik ground his hips into Bakura's groin insistently, as though there was no time to waste.

Malik's tan robe was pulled up over his head in an instant, and the next second, Bakura's red robe, Ring, and the navy cloth around his waist were thrown off. Malik's heart sped up; the feel of Bakura's naked skin on his own never failed to excite him. Then, Bakura entangled his legs with Malik's, and grabbing his hips, flipped them over, towering above Malik with his white hair cascading down.

But Malik didn't have much time to enjoy the sight of Bakura above him, as the thief lowered his mouth to Malik's chest to bite and lick his nipples, driving him wild, until Malik grabbed the blankets beneath him and screwed his eyes shut. He squirmed beneath Bakura, turned on beyond belief. He scratched down the length of Bakura's back in pleasure, pressing him closer.

"Malik," Bakura breathed, nibbling on the outer shell of Malik's ear. "It's the last night we'll be here. The last night we'll have some privacy and a shelter, for a while. Do you want to—"

"Yes," Malik replied quickly, breathing shallowly. "Yes, right now. And don't make me wait a second longer."

They'd never done this before, and Malik didn't have much of a clue how it worked, but he wanted it, no matter how painful he anticipated it would be.

Bakura hesitated for a moment but then he reached into one of the shelves quickly, and when Malik caught sight of his hands, he noticed that they were smothered in oil.

"What is that?"

Bakura reddened, which struck Malik as very odd. "It's almond oil. I've been, ah—anticipating us doing this for a little while, and decided to be prepared."

"Have you done this before, then?" Malik asked curiously.

Bakura blushed again. "No, of course not. Who else would I have done it with?"

The answer both soothed Malik and caused him to be more nervous. If neither of them knew what they were doing, it was bound to be even messier. But however it turned out, Malik decided, he would cherish the experience nonetheless.

"You should calm down," Bakura suggested, eyeing the tenseness in Malik's face. "It'll probably be worse if you're tense. Actually, since my hands are all oiled up anyway, flip over. I'll massage you."

Malik flipped himself over, finding the situation a bit funny. Then, a moment later, he felt Bakura's cool hands on his warm back, rubbing him up and down, and working out the knots in his back. The oil made the whole ordeal smooth and relaxing, as Bakura sat on his lower back and pressed the palms of his hands into Malik's tense muscles.

Several minutes later, Bakura ceased his ministrations and Malik turned to lie on his back again, indeed feeling much calmer. Bakura retrieved more oil for his hands, and Malik breathed in deeply as the reality of what was about to happen caught up to him. Clearing his thoughts, he simply nodded at Bakura to proceed.

Bakura oiled himself as well, perhaps to make the ordeal easier, and Malik couldn't help but be turned on by the sight of Bakura with his hands on himself. He reached up and kissed him fervently, hoping that the simple action would show that Malik trusted Bakura entirely with this process, no matter how it turned out. A moment later, Bakura pushed one of his oiled fingers in.

Malik tensed up immediately.

"Calm down," Bakura reminded him, and reached his unoccupied hand behind Malik's head to draw him forward to kiss him firmly. "Don't think about it for now, and then it'll get better."

Malik nodded, and a moment later, Bakura pushed in another finger, loosening him. Malik expected pain, considering what Bakura was doing, but the oil really seemed to help. He was uncomfortable—the feeling was strange and unfamiliar—but his discomfort was nowhere near what he expected.

When he was sufficiently loosened, Bakura placed one of his hands on Malik's hips to steady the both of them, and used the other to guide himself.

He pushed in. Malik bit his bottom lip, his discomfort deepening as Bakura dug deeper. The intrusive feeling was surprising and foreign, but still bearable.

"It'll get better, I promise," Bakura whispered.

In that moment, he pressed in and filled Malik entirely, causing the boy to wince as Bakura settled himself.

Bakura simply sat for a moment, letting Malik get used to the feeling, then he began moving. Keeping both hands on Malik to steady himself, he thrust in and out slowly. Malik breathed shallowly, keeping his hands on Bakura's back. He stared into Bakura's eyes, finding that the sight calmed him.

Then, Bakura moved faster, and Malik's breath caught at the quickening tempo. He shifted to alleviate his discomfort a bit and in that moment, Bakura hit upon something indescribable, causing Malik to gasp and squirm with pleasure. The movement excited Bakura, and he suddenly thrust in deeper, eliciting a moan from Malik. Yes, he decided, it certainly had gotten better. Then, thinking to make the experience better for him, Bakura reached around and grabbed Malik by his cock, and moved his hand up and down. Malik screwed his eyes shut and bucked his hips, now moaning and completely lost in the moment.

"I won't last long if you do that," Malik panted.

The rhythm of Bakura moving in and out of him—and his hand all over him—was too much. Malik squirmed and pressed Bakura closer, moving his hips with the same rhythm Bakura had set.

"Good," Bakura replied, his breath short as well, "because I won't either."

It ended quicker than perhaps either of them had expected.

Several minutes later, Bakura's lips parted as he threw his head back, and Malik felt something fill him. The sight of Bakura coming and the hand he still kept firmly on Malik pushed him over the edge quickly, and moments later, he spilled all over Bakura's hand.

Bakura dropped down on Malik's chest, completely spent. Malik still breathed a bit shallowly as he wrapped his arms over the thief, whose back was covered in sweat. Bakura laid his head on Malik's shoulder and breathed deeply.

They lay like that, without speaking, for quite a while. Neither was willing to move and neither felt the allure of sleep, though it must have been at least four in the morning by then. The fearful unknown of the next day, when Bakura rode out to Kul Elna and Malik was left behind to find the scrolls was suddenly catching up to the two of them. The world had been theirs for the night, but Malik knew deep in his heart that their journey wasn't over yet, and the danger hadn't passed.

In fact, he was afraid more than anything that the worst was yet to come.

* * *

**A/N:** So, that was my first real lemon. I hope it went alright?

Thank you to all who've been reading/reviewing this story so far! I love hearing what you think!


	5. Chapter Five

**A/N:** This is the last chapter! And just so it doesn't come as a surprise, there is character death. Also, not to cause confusion, Malik is the pre-incarnated state of Marik, so I chose to use the name Marik to refer to his future self.

Thanks so much to ChaosRocket for editing this chapter so thoroughly. :)

* * *

Chapter Five

Bakura left Malik's side early the next day, gathered up his few belongings, and rode out toward Kul Elna. Malik awoke some time later and—as had become his custom since he'd first drawn Bakura's tattoo over his right arm—Malik sat still for several minutes and wrote the three symbols on his skin in kohl.

He then set out to complete the task of finding the scrolls. He entered the palace, stealing through the shadows of the corridors quietly and quickly, as before. Bakura had given him precise instructions to help him find the room with the tablet monsters.

He encountered very few people along the way. Once, he saw Seto and several sacred guardians rush down the halls and head outside toward their horses. Malik gathered that the others had already gone out to find Bakura in Kul Elna and hurried his step toward the room of the stone tablets.

He found it easily enough. It had a high, domed ceiling, and as Malik stepped over the cobblestones, he felt that even the walls were imbued with magical power. He quickly approached the back of the room, which was filled with shelves and covered in shadows. A multitude of scrolls, at least several hundred, lined the shelves.

Bakura had advised him to look for relatively new parchment, since the massacre in Kul Elna had occurred quite recently in Egyptian history. He'd also advised him to open them up and look for hieroglyphics or images in the form of the Millennium Items. It was quite likely that the inscription may have been written amongst sketches of the items.

Malik spent several hours there, looking through the scrolls. He'd brought a rucksack with him, which he began filling with scrolls that looked useful. He found several which indeed indicated sketches of the Millennium Items. One in particular had some faded, red marks on it, which looked suspiciously like blood. Malik imagined that this scroll might have been used during the ritual, when the blood might have spilled over it.

When he felt that he'd gathered enough scrolls, he stole back through the corridors and made his way out of the palace. Toward the edge of the city, he slipped into one of the markets, and at a particular stall, made off with one of the horses.

The ride over the desert was nerve-racking. Malik had never stolen anything in his life, much less precious palace scrolls and a horse. His pulse was quick, the blood drummed in his ears, and the hot sun followed him on his way to Kul Elna.

It wasn't terribly far from the palace, and within a short while, Malik slowed down in front of a village in great ruin, situated in a valley. The square stone homes were gray and broken, weathered by wind and time. As he entered the village, he looked for signs of the young Pharaoh or the rest of his court, but saw neither.

Suddenly, he saw white wisps moving in the distance. Malik squinted and caught sight of what looked like tendrils of fog, floating above something.

He dropped off the horse immediately, bringing the rucksack with him, and rushed toward the object in the distance, over which the wisps glided and soared. All around him were signs of a battle, for the sand was freshly stirred, and he observed a multitude of hoof prints. It also surprised him to find skeletons lying near the stone huts, which Malik surmised must be the remains of Kul Elna's inhabitants.

He found the first sign of danger a little ways into the village.

A small trail of blood led from a passage in the cobblestones, which seemingly led into an underground chamber. The trail led to a spot in the sand only a few feet outside of the chamber, where it stopped completely.

Malik frowned, deducing that someone had gotten hurt in the chamber, had run out, and fled on a horse. It was the only explanation he could provide, since the trail stopped so abruptly.

What surprised him greatly was another trail of blood, which led from the underground chamber and across the sand, toward the object he'd seen in the distance, surrounded by the drifting wisps.

He rushed toward it, following the sparse trail of blood. It became clearer the closer he got, and the moment he saw the red robes, he broke into a sprint.

_No…_

Malik's heart lodged in his throat as he ran toward the figure leaning against the huts. The wisps became apparent. They were the spirits of Kul Elna, floating despairingly above their fallen avenger.

Bakura's head snapped up at the sound of Malik's approach.

The blood led directly to him, and as Malik stepped close, he saw the wound in Bakura's right side, seeping crimson all over his robes and the navy cloth around his waist. His bronze chest was covered in the red liquid and his clothes were soaked. As Malik lowered down beside him, Bakura coughed and blood dripped down from the side of his mouth.

"Bakura," Malik breathed. His heart was hammering in his chest. He stared at the blood sightlessly, unable to believe that it was real. The liquid was smudged over Bakura's face where he must have wiped at his mouth. Malik was reminded too keenly that he'd seen Bakura in this state before, struck in the back and kneeling on the filthy ground of the courtyard months ago. But Bakura had been a stranger then. The matter was crucial now.

Bakura smiled dryly. "I guess I wasn't as cautious as I'd promised."

Malik's jaw clenched. "What happened?"

"It was going according to plan, until I was reckless enough to wound the Pharaoh," Bakura replied, placing his head back on the wall and closing his eyes. His breath was short; it was apparent that the words were an effort. "The others were infuriated. One of them, I can't even recall who, took a sword to me in my instant of victory."

"Let's get you out of here," Malik said purposefully, seeing that asking questions now would just pain Bakura. He grabbed Bakura by the shoulders, pulling him into a sitting position.

Bakura cried out, the wound paining him as he doubled over. At that instant, Malik looked upon it more closely and his own blood chilled.

It was in the same spot as his impalement wound.

That wound had hardly healed, and after such a short time, it had been broken open again. But no matter, Malik convinced himself firmly; he would simply heal it again.

With strong conviction and despite Bakura's groans, Malik pulled Bakura up into a standing position and let the thief lean on him.

"They took the Pharaoh back to the palace," Bakura continued, his breathing labored. "They left me there, underground, to die. Or perhaps they're planning to come back and finish me off. It's no matter to me, really."

"Stop talking like that," Malik snapped. His nerves were frayed and his heart was beating quickly with panic and despair. He had to steady himself, for both their sakes.

Malik stepped forward slowly, keeping his arms around Bakura, who leaned on him heavily, having little strength of his own. He growled and held the wound in his side as they took the first several steps. Malik noticed that the Millennium Ring on his neck was splattered with blood. It surprised him that the Pharaoh's men hadn't taken it. Perhaps they did plan to return.

"Let's hurry, in case they do come back." Malik quickened his step.

Bakura laughed quietly, but the movement was too much and the laugh became a cough. With the wheeze, more blood spilled from his mouth, trailing down his lip. It grieved Malik to see him in such a state, to hear the terrible sound of his strenuous breath.

"I doubt there's anything we could do if they do come back. They'll take the Ring."

Bakura's hopeless tone was grating on Malik's nerves.

"I told you to stop talking like that. We'll get out of here quickly enough. We'll take the horse I stole and run off into the desert, like we'd planned," Malik said, his own tone strained. "Your wound has just set us back for a bit. You won't be able to move around for a while, and we'll have to find shelter quickly. You just have to be more cautious next time, and less ambitious."

At that, Bakura laughed again and bitterly said, "Yes, next time. It would indeed help if we had a horse, but I don't see one."

"What do you mean, you don't see one?" Malik asked, startled.

He looked toward the entrance of the village, but didn't see the horse he'd stolen.

"I'm sure it's just wandered off, that's all," Malik said. "It couldn't have run off far."

"Yes, or perhaps the spirits scared it off," Bakura offered. "It might have run back into the desert."

It sounded as though it was as much of an effort for Bakura to stay optimistic as it was to walk.

"We'll find it when we get closer," Malik assured him.

For the next half an hour they walked silently and laboriously, as Bakura relied on Malik to hold him up, taking a step at a time through the sand. The wispy spirits of Kul Elna followed, a crowd of guardian angels, overseeing the two as they paced through the village.

Malik's own optimism faded. Bakura was deteriorating quickly. It was clear that unlike the last time, the wound had punctured one of his organs, and he was bleeding on the inside. That explained the blood which continued to spill out with his coughs. Bakura's fingers gripped Malik's robes desperately, clutching him like life support. The blood still seeped out of his wound, soaking Malik's clothes as he grasped Bakura tightly. His grey eyes had lost the will to persist; he was simply walking because Malik was pulling him along.

When they finally reached the village entrance, there was no sign of the horse.

"Scared off, most likely," Bakura whispered. It was too much of an effort for him to speak above a whisper now.

Malik looked about. "No, it's here, I know it. The stupid beast wouldn't run off into the desert by itself. Stay here for a bit while I look around. It might be in the huts."

He lowered Bakura to the ground gently and marched back through the village, striding through the huts to look for the damned horse. It was their only way out. They couldn't trek the desert without it; they would die in the sand at the slow pace Bakura walked. And hiding in the village would be suicidal; the Pharaoh's men would find them in a heartbeat.

Aside from the spirits, the village was empty. He saw no hoof prints in any other part of the village, signaling that the horse could not have wandered there.

Malik was distraught when he returned to Bakura. The situation was frightening him, quickly scaring him out of his wits. He couldn't let himself despair though, not yet. He'd saved Bakura from death once and he would do it again.

"I didn't find it," Malik said quietly as he bent down to help Bakura up again to continue their trek. They'd simply find some way out; they just needed to keep moving.

But Bakura groaned and turned away. "No, please, let me be. It hurts to move. Just let me rest for a while."

It dismayed Malik to oblige him. He knew, deep in his despairing heart, that if he let Bakura rest, he would never stand again.

"We have to go," Malik pleaded. "Please, just be strong for a little longer and I'll find a way out of here."

He knew in that instant that he'd lost Bakura. He'd lost his will completely. The thief had laid back into the sand and didn't bother to reply. He breathed in and out shallowly, with his head turned to the side and his eyes shut.

The sorrow Malik had held at bay swayed him finally and lodged in his throat. The sight of Bakura lying still and breathing arduously, bleeding over the desert sand agonized Malik. There was nothing he could do but watch as his lover faded entirely.

He lowered to sit in the sand by Bakura's side and took his right hand in his own. He thought deeply of what else he could do. Run off toward the nearest city and ask for help? They would scorn him and push him away. This was a dangerous criminal he wanted to save. Carry Bakura toward the city? Someone would spot him. Malik wasn't strong enough, no matter how fervent his determination.

_There must be something!_ He cried to himself desperately.

He thought for a while, but found nothing. He eyed Bakura's deep wound; the fresh cut was still bleeding. It was as though the wound was an hourglass—Bakura's blood was the sand. Soon enough, Malik thought wretchedly, the sand would run out. Their time would be up.

Whatever time he had, he needed to use it wisely.

Malik lowered into the sand and lay beside Bakura, reaching out to stroke his white hair gently. Bakura's eyes opened and he smiled at the sight of Malik next to him. The blood that had trailed down his chin had dried. Despite the rich color of his bronze face, he looked exceedingly pale and the scar on his right cheek was stark and white.

"I think I considered myself, for the longest time, _immortal_," Bakura whispered. "I thought I'd accomplished everything so perfectly; there was no way I could fail. I had meddled in so much magic and power that for a while, I didn't even realize I was human. I didn't realize how _easily_ I could be killed."

The words were too much. Malik bit his lip as the sorrow overtook him.

"Please, Malik—run. The Pharaoh's men will be back. I'll be gone before they get here, but I don't want them to take everything I worked so hard to get." Bakura's blood-covered hands reached toward the Millennium Ring at his neck, and he sat up with difficulty. "Take the Ring." His eyes were keen and compelling. "Finish what I started."

Malik sat up as well but shook his head and pushed Bakura's outstretched hands back.

"I won't leave you. Whatever time we have, I'll spend it here."

"Malik," Bakura said angrily. "You'll be captured. They'll find the scrolls on you. They'll have all the evidence they need to imprison you."

Malik looked into Bakura's furious eyes. "Let them. I don't care. I can't leave you like this. If this is your death bed, I also want to be on it."

"So you'll let me die in regret, then?" Bakura snapped. "You won't even continue my vengeance. I really thought better of you—"

But Malik placed a fingertip to Bakura's mouth. "Trust me, you won't die regretting your revenge. I'll let you have your vengeance."

And he would. He knew exactly how to do it, for he'd told Bakura all about it earlier, in the days when they were still planning their assault. During their innocent, unsuspecting days. He only needed the Ring and the certainty of Bakura's last breath.

"How, then?" Bakura demanded. His eyes were searing with emotion. It was truly heart-wrenching how desperately he wanted his revenge, and how far out of his grasp it was now.

But Malik simply gathered his arms around Bakura, pulling him close. "You will, trust me. I'll make sure of it."

When Bakura opened his mouth to argue again, Malik hesitated for a moment, wondering if it was the best decision to let Bakura know. But it wouldn't do any good to keep the idea to himself, especially when Bakura was so anxious to have comfort that his quest for vengeance wouldn't be abandoned. So Malik leaned in and whispered the details of what he planned to do. It was a last resort and it pained Malik to say the words. The very act of telling Bakura set his death in stone.

At that, Bakura calmed a bit, and simply let himself be embraced, breathing jaggedly. The mere act of being angry and speaking in anything higher than a whisper had worn him out, and he simply leaned against Malik, conserving the little strength he had left.

They lay like that for a while. Malik laid Bakura's head on his lap and stroked his hair as the thief rested with his hands over his stomach, inches from his wound. It was nearly night, and the sky soon brightened with winking stars. The full moon rose out of the clouds, looking down upon them and brightening the wispy spirits of Kul Elna, which still circled above them as their powerless protectors.

The ground beneath Bakura was soaked in blood. It gleamed in the moonlight and reminded Malik that it wouldn't be long now. Bakura was already drifting in and out of consciousness. But soon, he would be lulled into complete unconsciousness. And soon after that, he would take his last labored breath, his heart would beat its last pulse, and he'd lay still and motionless, taking Malik's hopes and future along with him.

"You were the first one, you know," Bakura whispered once, after having drifted out of consciousness for a while.

"The first one to do what?" Malik asked quietly, clutching Bakura's right hand. For some time, he had mindlessly been running his fingers over the tattoo of Ptah.

"After my village and my family died, no one addressed me as anything other than a thief," Bakura continued, coughing lightly. "For years, I never had the need to tell anyone my name, because no one cared to know it. But that day, when I met you in your underground room, you asked to know my name. And since then, you've never addressed me as anything other than Bakura." He paused, gathering his breath. "It pleases me, that's all."

"For all that you've given me in return—for the life that you've shown me—it's the very least I could do."

Malik looked down into Bakura's eyes and saw the raw emotions in them. He didn't seem fearful of death, only accepting. Aside from his revenge, he had no regrets. An instant later, he closed his eyes and fell unconscious again. To some degree, Malik suspected that Bakura had never expected to live. The moment he'd been struck by the hand of execution, Bakura had only lived on borrowed time and tried to make the most of it. Malik had halted death for a mere second—enough time to know and to love the forbidden.

When the darkness had completely engulfed the landscape, Malik leaned down and brushed aside Bakura's hair, laying a kiss on his forehead.

Bakura's eyes opened briefly, and he stared unfocusedly at Malik, as though no longer recognizing him.

Knowing that movement was beyond Bakura now, Malik leaned further, and pressed his lips to Bakura's, tasting the blood on his mouth. The coppery smell and savor was too much, and he had to lean back and steady his breath. Tears had pricked his eyes at realizing that Bakura was almost gone, in spirit, if he could no longer recognize him. Malik calmed his own breathing. He wouldn't cry now. There was nothing to cry over yet.

Several times over the next hour, Bakura coughed suddenly, as though the blood was choking him as it flooded him from the inside. But he was no longer aware of Malik. He no longer responded to his touches or kisses and simply lay with his head in his lap. His breathing slowed.

When Malik sensed that the end was near, he gently took the Ring from around Bakura's neck and pressed the golden ring over his heart. He focused his power into the Ring, hoping that his lack of training as a magician wouldn't impede the spell's completion. He knew that all it required was to bring the item's wielder close to death, and when brought into close contact, the spirit would travel into the Ring.

"You'll have your revenge, Bakura," Malik said quietly. "But not in this lifetime."

He heard Bakura heave his last breath, and felt, rather than saw, Bakura's spirit imbue the Millennium Ring pressed against his chest.

When the spell was complete, Malik placed the Ring around his own neck, holding the spirit close to him. It was all that remained of Bakura now—the spirit in this item. His body was useless now, a beautiful shell, covered in blood.

At that, Malik's tears finally spilled. He grabbed Bakura's dead body in his arms and dug his face into his white hair and cried over his wretched losses. For he'd lost it all now. He'd lost his only friend and lover. He'd lost his future and the plans they had made to run into the desert and live out a carefree thief's life. There was no life for him any longer, not here and not at the palace.

His shoulders shook violently as he sobbed over the fading warmth of Bakura's body. Part of him, some dormant and optimistic part, hoped that none of this had happened. The tragedy, after their chain of successes, was shocking. He had been so sure—_Bakura_ had been so sure—that it would all work out. How could either of them anticipate that Bakura was, after all, only human? That he could be killed with the simple stroke of a sword?

Malik wasn't sure how long he sat in the sand, spilling his heart over it; he was simply aware that after a while, he had gone numb.

He heard voices and shouts in the distance, the sound of horses braying and men drawing close to him. His senses had dulled and he didn't even look up.

He was yanked upward suddenly by a man in royal garb, who pushed him toward one of the horses. His head reeled and amongst the turmoil and sorrow, he didn't bother to understand any of it. Parts of his memory blurred, and he couldn't recall how one moment, he was still standing outside the village of Kul Elna, and the next he was at the palace, before the court and its damned Millennium Items.

"Malik, did you really do it?" he heard someone ask, someone feminine and distraught. "You helped him. You knew the entire court was against him. He threatened to kill the Pharaoh!"

Malik's gaze was unfocused. He didn't speak and hardly listened to any of the other shouts. He was briefly aware that the cuff of his robe was pulled up and heard gasps about the room.

"The name of Ptah on his arm," someone intoned. "The mark of a prisoner. He must have drawn it as an alliance to Bakura."

The mention of Bakura's name pained Malik and his senses dulled further.

The glow of a Millennium Item was near Malik suddenly, and moments later, that woman's voice rang out again.

"He's helped him. I've seen it all with the Necklace. But please, Pharaoh, spare him. He was clearly confused, and he's still so young. You can't condemn him!"

The man who responded wasn't the Pharaoh, however, Malik mindlessly gathered.

"How do you explain the scrolls he'd stolen, then? The mark on his arm. That he was found right next to _him_, and holding the Ring? There's only one way to condemn alliances to the devil, Isis. I'm sorry."

Malik couldn't recall anything past that. There was simply darkness for a long time, then the feeling of being dragged forward and his hands and feet bound in chains. Through the fog and despair in his mind, he recalled a similar scene, when Bakura had been executed. Back then Malik had been the one staring at Bakura, not taking his place.

The sand was coarse beneath his feet and the sun beat down unbearably. He felt hot in his own skin; he crawled and seethed in it, unable to stand the uncomfortable feeling of being so numb and lifeless. Someone grabbed him roughly and pulled him toward the center of the courtyard.

_Ah, so this is how it goes_, Malik thought in a moment of clarity, realizing where he was and what was about to happen.

The guard behind him grabbed the rod from the ground, where it had been wedged, and raised it high before his prisoner.

Malik's last thought was swift and pleading.

_For the love of Ra, let me follow him._

The rod fell in a sweeping, quick motion and pierced his heart. He was gone before the stake could emerge from his lifeless chest.

And he found that impalement did not, after all, impede the _ba_ from crossing into the afterlife.

* * *

_Three thousand years later, the moment Marik first laid eyes on Bakura, who'd just jumped in the way of his swift motorcycle to stop him—Marik had a sense of déjà vu. A single prayer came to him, the prayer of a sixteen-year-old boy, uttering a dying wish to almighty Ra._

_ And his wish had been granted._

_ Here stood Bakura, his hair longer and whiter. His eyes brown and unkind, and the devilish scar beneath his right eye gone. The pallor of his skin struck Marik as odd. But his stance was strong and his gaze was piercing, and the Ring chimed on his neck as he approached Marik._

_The power of their Millennium Items clashed, recognizing the equal strength of the other. The longer Marik stared, the more memories flooded his mind, the validity of which he couldn't deny, for he could still feel Bakura's hands on his hips and his mouth on his ear; hands and lips from a time he was slowly beginning to recognize._

_They agreed to work together, but Marik's sense of déjà vu haunted him until he finally—bluntly—said:_

"_You've changed."_

_Bakura smirked, eyeing Marik as well. "Minor technicalities. My memories are intact."_

_Marik smiled at this, and stepped closer to Bakura, breathed in the spirit's scent, met his unwavering eyes, and felt some part of his heart mend a bit, as though it had always ached over an unknown loss._

"_We have some unfinished business, I think," Bakura said, perhaps referring to his purposeful revenge, perhaps to the matter of their relationship._

_Whatever his meaning, Marik nodded, and as he leaned forward to kiss the man he'd followed after three thousand years, he realized—_

_He would follow this man forever, if he had to.

* * *

_

**A/N:** So that's the end of this little tale. I hope the ending is clear; if not, let me know! If anyone is interested, I've actually drawn a scene from this chapter on my deviantArt page (the link to which you can find on my profile page).

Let me know what you think! I love hearing your input! And thanks so much for sticking by me for the past month or so! You guys are awesome. :)


End file.
